amanda

you taught me how to love myself --

i guess. that hurts.

 

i told you "hey, i wish i had a period" when you got

yours in fourth grade

but got sexualized more.

 

but what i remember a lot of is your long, red hair

and how you had a huge mole on your arm named Frederick.

 

it's funny. i thought i loved you at one point.

 

i thought, "shit, i must be gay."

but, really, my family was very torn and loveless.

we said thank you with broken dishes,

cut out the roofs of our mouths when we had to

apologize.

i didn't know how to look at friendship without

fear, so

i held you too close sometimes.

 

and i'm sorry you had to call me

to make sure i didn't swallow those pills

or load bullets into my brain.

 

one day i tried to ring you after we graduated.

i hadn't heard from you in six months.

i didn't want to bother you.

 

you had school,

band (you were always the best flute player),

and a boyfriend

who didn't know about me

and not enough time.

 

i called you nine times in one hour and left you

a long voicemail about how i didn't know what to do with my life or with myself,

and after thirteen days you texted me a paragraph whose only words that

stood out to me were

"tiffianie - sometimes people grow apart for no reason"

and i put my phone down

because it hurt to know that you, my only friend,

had did to me what so many others had done,

except you actually did it:

you stuck the blade deep into my brain where my memory was of you and

ripped it out before i could

bleed all over you.

 

and i got over it.

 

slowly.

 

i deleted you from all social media

but you kept following me for some sick reason

to maybe check up one me,

see if i fell apart.

but sometimes when i find myself missing you,

when i find myself wanting to send this to you,

i think --

yeah, you gave me seven years of your life

but i can't let myself chase you around

for the remainder of mine.

 

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